


sky sees the light

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: "just imagine losing something in every city you go to so u have to go back to find it again"





	sky sees the light

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about just like............ none of it actually syke. quentin OR christian, neither of you read this. 
> 
> enjoy, xoxo

**credit card, Chicago**

You’re stupid drunk and hungry and Chris shines just a little bit where the light hits him. 

He’s like glass. He's like a mirror. He's like something too big and impossible to look at to make metaphors out of. 

He wants pizza. You'd give him anything he wants, you'd give him your shirt or your laptop or your whole entire heart all to himself if he asked for it, which he hasn't. All he wants is pizza, and you can do that. 

“I can do that,” you mumble against his neck, and he laughs at you. It’s fine. You'll get him a pizza. It's easy. You leave your card on the counter by the register and if the cashier calls after you, you can't look away from Chris long enough to hear it. 

 

**earbuds, Denver**

The rain doesn’t end. 

You’re not stupid drunk but that doesn’t really change anything, because you are learning very thoroughly that Chris scatters touches like they aren’t world-ending. They’re not world-ending, they just feel that way. It feels that way when he’s reaching out to tug on your sleeve, when he leans against you like it’s nothing. 

It is nothing, and you know that, and still. 

He takes an earbud and you let him. It’s a cramped little hotel room which is almost an excuse but not really for the way he’s crammed up against your side. 

You breathe together like it’s after the end of the world, and the two of you and soft synth strains are the only things left in the rain. 

He falls asleep and you kind of do too, and then he wakes up and wakes you up by planting an elbow so deep in your gut you almost forget to notice how you had been actually honest-to-god sleeping together. 

“I need a fucking coffee,” he mumbles and it’s like the pizza all over again, you’ll get him whatever he wants forever, except you pick up your phone and see the time and almost throw him onto the floor in scrambling up. 

“ _We’re so fucking late_ ,” you hiss and he’s scrambling after you because famous DJ or not no airline will wait for either of you and _shit_. 

You don’t realize you’ve left your earbuds tucked into the seam of the stupid little hotel couch until you’re past security, patting down your pockets and knuckling sleep from the corners of your eyes. 

He laughs at you. You pretend to be offended. 

 

**guitar straps, New York**

“Quen,” he says and you’re stupid drunk, again, but this time it’s a little stupider and a lot more drunk. 

“Chris,” you answer, but you draw out the ‘s’ until you run out of air. It makes you want to laugh but you don’t have the air for it so you choke instead and then have to cough to get enough oxygen back in your lungs. He looks so funny from this angle. He looks like a monster, all body and a cartoon head, eyebrows arched like he doesn’t want to find you amusing. 

You’re funny. You’re fucking hilarious. You’re king of the jesters and you hope he appreciates it. 

“I’m funny,” you tell him, but it comes out a little garbled. You haven’t been laying on the ground long but you did arrive there very suddenly. 

“Quen,” he repeats, and stoops to help get you up. You’re not sure you want to go, but he’s very convincing. “C’mon, you can’t keep falling everywhere.” 

You bark out a laugh because you absolutely can, and then you can’t really stop laughing as he gets your feet under you, which must be a fun adventure for him because he’s not exactly the most sober either. You’re not very helpful. 

“It’s you,” you try to explain. “Falling! It’s you!” 

“It’s _you_ ,” he says, an entirely malicious act of missing the point. “You’re doing the falling.” 

“I know,” you say, and then you prove that you are very stupid indeed because it’s been a very long night and you have just played a show that had lit you up inside like you’ve been living in the dark your whole damn life and he’d been sidestage the whole time, watching and dancing and mouthing along with the words as you queued them up. 

You love him. Stupid drunk, laughing like a hyena with the sweet hurt of it. You love him so much. 

You kiss him. 

It is very easy. 

 

**phone charger, New Jersey**

You don’t want to think about Jersey. You think about Jersey all the fucking time. 

 

**glasses, Toronto**

He catches up to you, which is disappointing. You have a beautiful track record of outrunning your problems and only letting them catch you when you go to scroll the Twitter feed of your own emo-ass posts later. You’d been betting on making it a lot longer on the run. 

You’d make a terrible outlaw, you decide regretfully. It simply isn’t for you. 

“You’re the worst,” he tells you, which you _do_ know, thanks. He’s panting a little because the running away might have been mostly figurative but the past five minutes of it weren’t. You’d hoped you’d be faster because you’re a little taller, but Chris has the power of determination and probably some sort of mutant genetic talent for making your life impossible. 

“Yeah,” you mumble and shove your hands into your pockets for something to do. 

He’s just kind of looking at you. It makes you nervous at the best of times when he does that and these are very far from the best of times. 

“Not like that,” he says at last, after a pause that you don’t love. You don’t really know what he means, anyway. The whole English language can fuck off, you’ve decided. You have a fucking headache. 

He lets you get away with silence for about thirty seconds. 

“Are you _really_ pretending you don’t speak English right now?” he demands and he sounds incredulous enough that it nearly cracks your facade. This whole thing is a farce and it’s bordering into something so ridiculous you can’t even keep a straight face. 

You’re terrible at being French. Laughing at your own heartsickness. If you had the energy you’d be ashamed of yourself. 

“Non,” you lie. 

He stares at you for a long time and then he’s smiling and then he’s snickering and then he’s laughing so hard he has to brace his hands on his knees. 

“You’re so full of shit,” he tells you, which might be true but seems a little rude, and then he’s in your space again. 

It’s been a while. You’re not used to it anymore, not that you ever were, and it’s overwhelming. He still shines like a fucking wildfire, he’s still way too beautiful for your heart to take, and it’s so stupidly unfair of him to step into your space and look at you like this. Your heart keeps skipping beats and you can’t quite talk your lungs into taking a breath. 

“Stupid,” he tells you. 

“Rude,” you answer, defensive, and you have more to say but-

He kisses you. Your glasses fall off.

 

**dignity**

“I want pizza,” he complains, and you can do that.


End file.
